Disappear
by The Omniscient Bookseller
Summary: Racetrack is definately not who he seems to be. This is not one of those abusive-father-comes-back-and-newsie-must-trust-his-friends-to-help-him stories. I promise!
1. The Truth

If I claimed that I was a writer from Disney and I did, indeed own the newsies, would you believe me? *sigh* Didn't think so….

Note: William McKinley was president from 1897 to 1901 

I tried to kill William McKinley. 

My name is Michael O'Donan. I come from Auburn, Nebraska. I'm what they call a "dark Irish"- black/brown hair, dark eyes, pale skin. And only 5'3" at the age of 25. I keep to myself mostly; I'm a quiet man, and was a quieter child. At home, I would often retreat to my own little world of thoughts and dreams. It was that world that eventually killed my family. But I don't think of that anymore. I never did too well in school, though- not to brag- I've got an unusually quick mind. That was what landed me here. And what kept me from landing anywhere worse. I despise smoking, cheating, and bullies. And I play a killer game of poker.

No one in the state of New York has heard of Michael O'Donan, except for maybe a few police and the mayor. That was their biggest mistake. Keeping it quiet. If you asked anyone here who I was, most of them would give you some kind of lecture about too much interest in the lower class. The newsies would tell you that I am an Italian by the name of Anthony Higgins, better known as Racetrack, a boy who's mother was killed in a factory accident, who's sister Bianca disappeared, and who's father died from sickness when he was young. They'd say that I am a native of New York, with a quick sarcastic tongue and an interest in any business that isn't mine. They'd assure you that I'd never gone to school, and that I'd become a newsie two years ago, when I was 14. They would say that I am funny and immature, addicted to cigars and gambling. And that I play a killer game of poker.

Not to brag or anything, but I think I did a pretty good job of disappearing. 


	2. Telling

I was sleeping at Medda's for the second time in my life. The first night I'd spent in New York was on her doorstep, until she tripped over me and brought me in. 

Out of the lights, the makeup, and the wig, Medda is quite a different person. She has light brown hair, pale skin, and much less of a presence. You can tell by looking at her that she's been through a lot. 

"What's bothering you, Race?" She has no trace of a Swedish accent. "Is it something from before you were a newsies?" She pauses for a second. "You know, you never told me your whole story, just the outline of it."

I open one eye and look at her. She reminds me of everything that could have happened if I hadn't tried what I'd tried- or if I hadn't failed. Not because she leads a perfect life, not by far- she's had her share of problems, just like all the newsies. No, it's because, as much as I don't like to admit it, I am in love. With her. But, because of what I've done, she sees me as a sixteen-year-old boy, more of a son than a friend. Her words at the rally echo inside my head. "He's just a child, can't you see that?!" 

I open both eyes and fix them on hers, dropping the accent and slang that have become second nature.

"My name is Michael O'Donan. I am twenty-five years old."


	3. Discovery

I let out a whoop when I saw the headline. 

"Eyh, guys! Lookit dis!" 'Attempted Murderer Thought To Be In New York' stared up at me in large print from the front page. The article gave details about a man, Michael O'Donan, who'd tried to kill the president of the United States. I took a hundred papers and sold them all, easily. You could've sold by sitting in an alley and not saying anything, with that kind of a story. We all ate like kings at Tibby's.

"So, Race, ya scared a' dat guy from da papes?" Blink clambered up to his bunk, managing to step on me although I was on the other side of my bed. 

"Ya kiddin'? Dere's so many moiderah's round heah, he's just da only one dat got any fame. 'Sides, didja read da rest? 'E's probably da only oddah guy in dis city who knows what it's like ta be five feet tree inches." He laughed at me and called goodnights to the others. 

At one o'clock I crept out of bed and wrote my note by the dim light from the window. At 1:03, I was gone. In the middle of the floor lay a note, held down by the carved wooden horse my mother had given me. It was the last thing I had to remind me of my family, and I never had let it go before. My Italian family, that is. My mother, Rosa Higgins, had made it for me.

I learned that my sister Bianca is alive and in danger. 

I've gone to look for her. If I find her, I'll come back.

If I don't come back, keep this somewhere to remember me by.

Racetrack


	4. Goodbyes

I never had anyone to say goodbye to before. I've had excuses to make, for sure, but never any goodbyes. Medda was really the best friend I've ever had, and I had to leave. But that's the risk I took, and I knew it. 

She opens the door before I even raise a fist to knock. She must have been waiting up all night. Wordlessly, she hugs me hard. When she lets go, I can see that there are tears in her eyes. 

"I'll miss you, Race." There's no question that I've got to get out of here. She knows it's true. I know it's true. 

Suddenly, without really realizing what I'm doing, I reach up and kiss her, once, softly. 

Then, with a small smile, I use my New York accent for the last time. 

"Cya round." 

I force myself not to look back.


	5. And Again

I am an orphan.

My name is Erik Zonitson. My mother was Irish, my father Russian. They died in a carriage accident when I was twelve. My grandmother, who was my guardian, recently died also. I moved to London Mills, Illinois to look for a job. I now work as an apprentice to an accountant. I am twenty years old. I am reasonable, polite, and good-tempered, though slightly shy, and keep my opinions to myself. I almost never get angry. I read, any books I can find, whenever I have spare time. And I play a killer game of poker.

Today the newspapers declared that the president of the United States of America has been killed. They suspect a man named Michael O'Donan.

I, Erik Zonitson, think this is terrible, but stay quiet and show my boss the article. 

I, Racetrack, remember this man from the newspaper a year and a half ago. I'd always thought they were making it up.

I, Anthony Higgins, have never heard of Michael O'Donan.

I, Michael O'Donan, know that it is time to disappear once again.

In the middle of the night, I tip the table on its side. I silently open a window, and scatter a pile of loose papers across the floor. Then I take a knife, make a few slashes in the couch where I sleep, and one in my wrist. The blood drips onto the floor, making a visible stain. Good. I slip out the door and close it behind me.

My boss will infer what happened. 


	6. Termination

Glancing both ways, I leap out into a field, roll, and lie flat, hardly daring to breathe. A few minutes after the looming shadow of the train has passed, I sit up, brush myself off, and look around. I've timed it well- the trek into town isn't too far- but I ache all over from almost a full day in a train and the sudden tumble. By the time I arrive somewhere that could be classified as civilization, I can barely keep my eyes open. I collapse on someone's doorstep, my legs and eyelids racing to see who can give out first. 

"Hey, kid. Ain't ya got somewhere else to sleep?" I wake to a sharp prod in the side and a harsh voice. There is a kind of hazy light over the world, though the sun is nowhere to be seen this early in the day. I groan and raise my eyes to those of the officer standing above me. His expression goes from impatience to complete shock to something I don't recognize and don't wish to recognize in less than a second. Before I'm even really awake, my hands are locked behind me and I'm being dragged away at an unnecessarily fast pace by a much larger group of policemen then I've ever seen in one place. I don't try to fight or run. I've always depended more on my brain, which has saved me from being caught countless times, but isn't much use once I am caught. I raise my eyes as we near a large, bleak building. Well, my being alive never really benefited anyone. At least my death will do something good. 

The guys are going to have the best headline of their lives tomorrow. 

*~*~*~*

I don't usually do shout outs, but when I logged on 10 hours after posting this and had 7 reviews, I just had to say something about how wonderful it was. So, thanks to: Ann, Fastdancer, Rae, Lilmaxie, Corky, and Sobe a lizard for your support! You guys make me feel so loved!


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